General Education
by BonitaBreezy
Summary: Clint needs a history gen ed to graduate. Phil is a widely respected history professor. It's possible that Clint spending all his time in Phil's office hours is less because he needs help and more because he enjoys the company.


Sometimes being a professor was a pain.

Sometimes, when Phil was grading over a hundred papers in a weekend and the spelling and grammar was so bad it made him want to weep, he wondered why he had ever thought teaching was a good idea. When students who never attended his class demanded he give them extra credit after they flunked the midterm and then pitched a fit when he directed them to his policy in the syllabus, he thought longingly of the days when his father had badgered him to go to law school. When his pitiful paycheck barely seemed to cover all the bills from paying back his student loans (let alone his rent and basic necessities) he wondered why he hadn't gone in to something a little more profitable.

But when he was standing in front of a class, watching them have impassioned discussions about the topic of the day, he remembered. He remembered that these were the next generations of leaders and that most of them were quite brilliant and had interesting views on the world and saw things in ways he'd never have thought of. When he overheard students talking to their friends about how they should "totally take Coulson's class, the guy is brilliant", he remembered that he was respected and made learning about things he loved enjoyable for others. The feeling of pride he got when he a student who had been struggling finally raised their grade up to a decent level instead of dropping out of the class was more than enough to overcome the minor annoyances that also came with his job.

Phil had given what he thought was a particularly good lecture on famine in the Ukraine under Stalin that morning, and telling his classes about all the horrible happenings and cannibalism that had taken place throughout it gave him a particular thrill. It was amusing to watch them go pale and squirm in their seats. He made his own fun.

So he was in a good mood as he headed back to the history department for office hours. He greeted Darcy, the grad student who did work study as the secretary, with a muffin he'd picked up when he bought his coffee and headed back to his office for some quiet time to arrange his notes for his next lecture. He'd barely sat down at his desk and started to boot up his computer when there was a knock at the door and an unfamiliar student let herself in. Her skirt length was bordering on obscene, but she almost seemed to make up for the skin coverage with her big knitted sweater and high boots. He knew she must have been in one of his classes, but he couldn't recall her face. He was generally pretty good about remembering his students, so he felt a little guilty about it.

"Hi Professor Coulson!" she greeted, her voice pitched high and cheerful, the type of voice people used when talking to a complete stranger. "I'm Miranda; I'm in your History 350?"

"Yes, hello," he said, pretending like he knew her. "How can I help you?"

She sat herself down in the chair in front of his desk, crossing her legs and exposing a long amount of thigh. He resisted the urge to offer her something to lie over her lap. He wasn't generally stuffy about his students' clothing; it was really none of his business. But sometimes he couldn't help but judge a little bit. He blamed it on his age.

"Well you see, I got your paper back last week? And I know you said you wanted us to wait a few days before we came to you about the grade, so I did. Honestly, I don't think my grade is fair. I've never gotten a D before in my life." She pouted a bit, and if he had had even the slightest interest in women, he thought it might have been effective, but he didn't, so it wasn't.

"All right, do you have your paper with you? We can go over it and you can explain why you think my comments are unwarranted," he allowed, knowing he was in for some arguing and complaining. He was completely open to changing a grade if the student actually deserved it, but they hardly ever deserved it and the same old arguments got tiresome after a few years.

She leaned down to retrieve her paper from her bag and when he saw the top of her head, he suddenly recognized her. She was the girl who always sat in the back row of his History and Technology class and spent the whole lecture looking down at her cell phone where she thought he couldn't see it. Really, he wasn't an idiot. No one spent an hour and half staring intently at a desk.

He could tell before she even handed the paper to him that a) it was two or three pages less than the required length, and b) that he had hardly written anything on it. That was never a good sign. Phil was a commenter. He loved to comment on papers about mistakes and to praise for good points. Usually, the papers he handed back were littered with his own hand-written notes. Just upon reading the intro and his own note on the citation page, he could see exactly why he had given her a D and was beginning to think that it had been rather generous of him.

"I don't understand what I did wrong," she insisted. "You said to write a paper about a technology that effected history and I did."

"Well, firstly, it was a five page paper and you gave me three," he said.

"No, I gave you four!" she insisted, flipping the pages to show him the two sentences written at the top of the fourth page. He valiantly resisted the urge to roll his eyes and continued on.

"Secondly, you didn't follow my instructions. I said that I wanted you to choose one specific piece of technology and craft an argument about whether or not it had an impact on history. You chose to write a general history of several different pieces of technology. It's not the same thing. I asked you for an analysis and a constructed argument and you gave me a reiteration of the slides I posted on Blackboard."

"So…what does that mean?" she asked hesitantly.

"It means that you didn't complete the assignment as it was requested of you and that I won't be raising your grade. If you'd like to discuss how you can do better on the next paper, I'd be more than happy to help," he offered. She suddenly didn't look as friendly as she had when she'd walked in the room, but he wasn't overly surprised by that.

"Well, can I do anything for extra credit?" she asked. He hated that question. Did no one read the syllabus?

"If you'd like to look on page four of your syllabus, you'll see that I have a strict policy about extra credit. I don't believe in it. If you want a good grade, do the work assigned to you."

She huffed angrily and snatched her paper from his desk, stuffing it in to her bag. She narrowly missed knocking a stack of papers off the edge of his desk when she swung her bag over her shoulder and stalked out of the room calling, "Thanks for nothing!" over her shoulder as she went. Mature.

He shrugged and turned to his computer, deciding to play some big band and check and answer emails until it was time to leave for his next class. It was only another twenty minutes when another girl knocked on his door as she entered the room. He definitely recognized her. She always had something to say, and he liked that she was intelligent and argumentative.

"How can I help you, Laura?" She was dressed almost the same as Miranda had been, with leggings instead of a skirt, and he wondered when giant sweaters had become a Thing again.

"I just wanted to tell you that your lecture today was really interesting!" she began breathlessly, and he could immediately see where this was going. He wasn't exactly sure what it was about girls in their twenties these days, but it seemed like every semester since he'd turned forty he'd had at least one female student ask him out on a date. He didn't understand why they would want to hit on a man his age, especially because he hadn't aged quite as gracefully as he could have, what with the way his hair was thinning out and his vision was going. But hit on him they did, and continued to do, so he just had to awkwardly reject his students at least twice a year.

"Thank you," he answered, unsure of what else to say. She bit her lip and played with the hem of her sweater, and he waited for the inevitable question.

"Would you want to get coffee with me sometime?" she asked quickly. "Like…a date? I know it's kind of weird because of the age but…"

"Laura," he interrupted gently. "You're a very nice girl, and I'm very flattered, but it really wouldn't be appropriate. I'm your professor and it's really unethical."

"I trust you to make responsible decisions," she told him earnestly, and he signed inwardly. Why couldn't it ever be simple?

"Thank you, I appreciate that," he answered. "The problem is; it's against University policy for a professor to date a student. And honestly, I wouldn't be comfortable with it. You're very bright and promising, Laura. You can find much better than an old man like me, I assure you."

Laura was no longer looking at him, her eyes trained on the toes of her boots and her face red. "I'm sorry to have bothered you," she mumbled, and before he could protest she was out the door. He sighed audibly and reached up to rub his eyes under his glasses. What had started out as an excellent day was starting to look very long.

* * *

Almost two weeks later, Phil was sitting in his office again, grading the quizzes from his Russian history class that morning. It was probably his favorite class. He really liked the students and the discussions, even though Laura never looked him in the face anymore. He marked another quiz with an 'A' and set it aside and was scanning over the first question of the next one when there was a gentle knock from his door and the sound of someone clearing their throat. He looked up to see the ridiculously attractive non-traditional student from his Russian history class. He definitely recognized him, of course, because he only had one student this semester who wasn't a traditional student and because he was, as previously mentioned, ridiculously attractive.

The first day he'd walked in to Phil's History of Russia class, Phil had had to push down the urge to run his hands (and tongue) all over the veins and curves of the guy's arms. They were really nice arms, and he seemed morally opposed to wearing sleeves. Other than his arms ("and ass!" Phil's brain supplied) there wasn't anything about him that should have been particularly attractive. He was pretty plain-faced, with a slightly larger than normal nose. He was about Phil's height, maybe a little taller, with short dark blonde hair that he appeared to messily arrange with gel in the morning. Phil thought he was somewhere in his early thirties. For all intents and purposed he was positively normal-looking, but something about him was extremely attractive to Phil. Honestly he wanted nothing more than to climb all over him, and that had been a problem. He'd made a concentrated effort not to look at the man more often than was necessary, and had even gone as far as to carefully not learn his name so that he wouldn't be mistakenly biased in his grading.

"Hi, Mr…" he trailed off awkwardly.

The man huffed a laugh and offered, "Barton. Clint." before taking the seat on the other side of the desk.

"Mr. Barton," he finished, trying to be the picture of professional. "How can I help you today?"

"I wanted to ask about my paper," Barton said, shifting uneasily.

"Mr. Barton, I have a policy about waiting at least twenty-four hours before you challenge a grade…"

"Oh yeah, I know," he said hurriedly. "I'm not asking you to change my grade, I'm pretty sure I deserved it. I just thought maybe you could tell me exactly what I did wrong and how to fix it? I'm not really good at this history stuff."

Phil surveyed him for a long moment, looking miserable with a stapled set of papers rolled up in his fist, before he sighed and gave in.

"All right, I suppose I can make an exception, since you aren't challenging the grade. Let me see." Clint handed him the paper, which had been so tightly clenched in his fist that it wouldn't lay flat anymore. There were tons of comments written on it, and as soon as he saw the paper Phil remembered it.

"Ah," he said. "Well, you had some really good ideas, Mr. Barton, but you didn't organize them very well. The whole paper is kind of a jumble of facts with no sort of structure. You didn't present me with an argument or any sort of real thesis. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"So it's not supposed to be about facts then?" Clint asked, chewing on his lower lip in a deliciously distracting way.

"Well, it is, of course. But the way to write an academic history paper isn't just to throw information at me. What I'm looking for is that you have an argument and that you can back it up. So you could literally tell me anything, as long as you have facts to prove what you're saying."

Clint stared at him, his eyes narrowed, mouth set in a deep frown. "I don't…can you explain that again?"

"Okay," Phil agreed. He was glad that Clint wasn't being an ass and clearly seemed very concerned with trying to figure out how to give Phil what he wanted. He had to wonder why he was taking such a high level history course when he clearly hadn't had any experience with writing academic history.

"So, this is the way it is. When I give you a paper, I give you the most basic guidelines. Sometimes it's a time period; sometimes it's a more specific event, sometimes it's about people, right?" Clint nodded, tapping his fingers against the arm of the chair in absence of being able to twist his paper between his fists. "So when I give you that basic prompt, what I want from you is to figure out an argument. Some sort of question within the parameters I set, and I want you to answer that question. It doesn't matter how you answer that question, as long as you can make a succinct argument and use properly cited material to prove it to me. So you could write a paper telling me that Hitler was the best thing that's ever happened to the planet, and as long as your argument was clear and you had reputable sources and reasons to back up that statement, I'd have to give you a good grade."

Clint nodded slowly, but he didn't stop fidgeting. "I'm not so great at coming up with the questions on my own," he said. "Could I show it to you before I wrote the paper?"

"Absolutely," Phil said. "If you want, you can come to my office hours with a whole introductory paragraph and I'll go over it with you. I'm here to help you, Clint. I'm sorry, Mister…"

"Nah, Clint's fine," he said, waving a hand nonchalantly. "I'd rather you call me Clint, actually. I just have one more question and then I'll be out of your hair, okay?"

"Ask away," Phil responded.

"I was wondering if I could come in and talk to you about what we talked about in class," he said. "I'm not good at history and I think I'd do better on the quizzes if I could talk to you one on one."

"Of course you can, that's what office hours are for," Phil assured him. "Can I ask you a question?"

Clint shrugged as if to say, 'go ahead', so Phil did.

"You've mentioned twice that you're not good at history. So why are you taking an upper level history course?"

"I needed a history gen ed," Clint shrugged. "I graduate in May and I've been putting it off because I'm really bad at social science. I'm a real science kind of guy, you know? Better at math and stuff. I had too many credits to get into the lower level courses so I had to take at least a three hundred and I heard you were a really good teacher so I figured if anyone could get it through my thick skull it would be you."

"Firstly," Phil said, ticking off on his fingers. "Social sciences are a real science, thank you very much. Secondly, you shouldn't be so hard on yourself, everyone has their weak points. I'm terrible at math. Thirdly, if you want to come in every day after class and talk about the lecture with me, you're more than welcome to. I'll do everything I can to make sure you graduate on time. Besides, you only need a C to pass for general education requirements."

"Yeah, I know," Clint shrugged. "But I'm going to be applying to Master's programs and I don't want a C to ruin my GPA."

"I completely understand that," Phil sighed. "What is your major?"

"Applied Physics," Clint said with a shrug. "I figured, since I was finally going to college I might as well do something I was good at."

"Wise decision, as long as you also enjoy it," Phil said, and Clint smiled. It was beautiful and Phil wanted to cover his face and lament about how unfair it was to dangle someone like Clint Barton in his face and then make him untouchable.

"I do," Clint assured him. "Thanks a lot. I'll see you Thursday."

"See you Thursday," Phil responded. He had no idea how he was going to get through the rest of the semester without jumping Clint Barton.

* * *

Phil Coulson was in trouble. It had been about three weeks since Clint Barton had started coming to his office hours before every class, and he was discovering that he genuinely liked Clint. He was funny and sarcastic and extremely intelligent in an understated sort of way. He found that half their meetings were spent just talking, rather than reviewing material. He'd discovered that Clint loved archery and taught a class twice weekly at the community center down town and that he shared an apartment with his best friend, a woman named Natasha whom he spoke of both frequently and fondly. He also found out that Clint worked full time as a mechanic and part time at a movie theater to put himself through school, which he also attended full time.

Clint was nothing short of remarkable, and Phil was having a worse and worse time trying to be professional . It was one thing when Clint was just an (extremely) nice looking package. It was something else entirely when Phil discovered he was also a hardworking and caring person. It was like Clint had been put on the Earth simply to torment and tempt Phil, and it was extremely unfair. But he knew very well that life was unfair, so he had to just get on with his life and do his best to make sure Clint passed his class.

He huffed a laugh as Clint told the punch line to his story about Natasha feeding a lion at the zoo, finishing with, "and I'm telling you, man, I have never seen that woman so afraid of anything before. Like, I told her it was a captive lion and probably sweet as a pussycat, but she didn't believe me. Never mind that I grew up feeding lions and probably had some idea of what I was talking about."

"Where did you grow up that you were feeding lions?" Phil asked.

"The circus," Clint answered nonchalantly, and Phil was unable to wipe the disbelieving smile from his face before Clint saw it. "Don't give me that look, I'm serious! My parents died when I was really young and my brother and I ran away from the orphanage to join the circus. Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders."

It was almost too spectacular to be a lie. But that didn't mean he still wasn't partly doubtful. "And what did you do at this circus?" he asked. "Besides feeding lions?"

"Ah, well, pretty much everything that needed doing. Striking the big top, mucking the animal stalls, running the midway. Sometimes I helped the acrobats do their hair and makeup. But when I turned thirteen, Trick Shot and the Swordsman taught me how to use a bow, and when I got good enough I got my own act."

"Doing archery? There's no way," Phil challenged.

"Yes way! I did a bunch of cool tricks! Some of my favorites were hitting a bunch of impossible targets while doing flips on the high wire, piercing the stem of a rose with an arrow right above the head of a pretty girl in the audience, firing an outline around a stage hand who pretended to be a volunteer from the audience, that sort of stuff. Hawkeye: the World's Greatest Marksman."

There was no longer any doubt in Phil's mind that Clint was telling the truth. The way he talked about his circus performances illustrated how much he had enjoyed them. His smile was happy but wistful, and his eyes were bright with remembrance.

"So why did you stop traveling with them, if you loved it so much?" Phil asked, and Clint's smile dimmed some.

"Ah, well. I found out that Jacques, the Swordsman, was embezzling money from Carson. Carson was tough and he wasn't fatherly or anything, but he had given me and my brother a home even when we were pretty much useless kids, so I was gonna rat him out. But he saw me and beat the shit out of me and left me for dead. A traveling circus waits for no one, you know? So when I wasn't there when they were moving out, they left me behind."

It was sad, a lot sadder than Phil had expected Clint's past to be, and he found he didn't really know what to say. 'I'm sorry your mentor tried to kill you?' Somehow he didn't think that's what Clint was looking for.

"That sounds awful," he said, almost wincing at how lame it sounded out loud.

"Yeah, it was. But you can dwell or you can move on, and I moved on. Took some help and encouragement from friends, a lot of floundering around and trying to figure out what the hell to do with my life, but I got there eventually."

"That's good," Phil said. "I'm glad you had people to help you, and the strength to sort your life out and get it where you want it to be. That takes a lot of guts."

"Still kind of working out that last part," Clint said, casting that beautiful smile at Phil again. "I've gotta say, it's gone better than I had expected it to."

"Well, I'm really glad to hear that," Phil told him, looking back down at his lecture notes and clearing his throat. Fighting the urge to flirt with Clint was a full-time job.

There was a long moment of silence, and it was most definitely an awkward one. Finally, Phil slipped on his glasses so that he could better read his notes, and looked back up at Clint.

"So, the Gulag."

* * *

"Phil, you looked like someone kicked your puppy. What's your problem?"

Phil let out a heartfelt groan and raised his head from where he'd let it thump to the table, accepting the Jack and Coke that Maria handed him and downing it in three long pulls.

"Well, I'm not going back to get you another one, so you better be ready to talk," Maria said, sipping at her bright green cocktail and piercing him with a no-nonsense look.

"I'm ridiculously attracted to one of my students," Phil groaned, settling his glass down on the table with a clunk. "But it's not just that he's gorgeous, it's that I genuinely like him and would have attempted a relationship with him weeks ago, were it appropriate."

Jasper and Maria both stared at him silently for a long moment before Maria sighed and stood up. "I'm getting you another drink."

Phil let his head thump back down on the table, groaning loudly in frustration. Jasper patted him awkwardly on the back.

"I don't know Phil, is it that big of a deal? I mean, he'll only be your student for one semester."

"I know that," Phil sighed. "I just can't help but feel like that creepy teacher. He comes to me for help with school work so that he can graduate and move on with his life and I'm lusting after him like some creep."

"I've got to be honest, I never really had you pinned as a cradle robber, but he's got to be at least eighteen…"

Phil snorted loudly, snagging Jasper's glass from under his fingers and taking a long drink, grimacing at the taste of tequila, a drink he'd never particularly liked. Jasper squawked indignantly and snatched his glass back.

"He's a non-traditional student," Phil explained. "He's in his thirties, it's not like I'm interested in a child. Give me more credit than that."

"He's still a student, Phil," Maria said, setting another glass down on the table. "You can't…"

"I know I can't. And I'm trying really hard to be a professional, but it's getting hard and frustrating and I think I'm honestly going to lose it. I would never jeopardize my career or want to put Clint in any position where he would feel pressured in to anything, but god he's so perfect and I'm think I'm going to crazy."

He took a long drink from his new glass, being careful not to put it away as fast as he had the first one. They were in a bar that was set towards an older crowd, but some students still chose to go there instead of to the cheaper bars farther downtown. He was a grown man, certainly, but it wouldn't do to be caught drunk by one of his students. He had a reputation to maintain, after all.

"Well, he's graduating at the end of the semester, right?" Jasper pointed out. "So really all you have to do is wait a month. Hell, you can accost him as he's walking off the podium if you want to, he won't be your student or a student of the University and then you two can go have all the sex you want."

Phil took a moment to imagine grabbing Clint by the front of his graduation robes and pulling him into a kiss and then dragging him away to from the ceremony and fucking him over his desk. It was a really nice picture.

"Come on back from the naughty daydreams, Phil," Maria said dryly, flicking some of her drink at him.

"It's a good thought," Phil admitted. "A great thought, actually. But let's be realistic about the likeliness that he would ever want me. As long as I don't make unfair advances at him he'll complete my class and graduate and move on with his life and eventually I'll be able to forget how nice his ass is and the way his eyes crinkle up at the corners when he smiles."

Maria rolled her eyes while Jasper grinned and said, "Man, you are _so gone_ on this guy."

"You're so hard on yourself, Phil. If this guy is as perfect as you seem to think, he's definitely in to you. He'd be stupid not to be."

"Just because I have a crush doesn't mean he has to feel the same way," Phil insisted. "And he's not stupid, he's _brilliant_. He can do trajectory calculations in his own head so fast the he never misses a target, no matter how impossible it seems. I've never met anyone like him."

Jasper's amused grin had slid into a concerned frown now, and he swirled the remains of his drink in his cup as he spoke up. "It seems like you're really invested in this guy, Phil," he said.

"Yeah," Phil sighed. "Because I'm an idiot. He's not even gay, he lives with this woman named Natasha and he talks about her like she hung the moon. I developed feelings for the most unavailable person I've ever met, and now I've just got to deal with it. I know that. And I appreciate your concern, but I want to assure you that I'm not going to try anything inappropriate."

"We never doubted that, Phil," Maria assured him, her voice gentler than usual. "We just wanted to make sure you're going to be okay."

"I don't know," Phil sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. "Eventually, I guess. That's how life goes, right?"

"Right," Jasper reassured. "Besides you've still got me. Nothing's better than that." Phil choked on his drink and almost coughed himself to death before laughing for a solid minute.

"You're a jackass," Jasper told him darkly, and Phil just laughed harder.

* * *

"So what you're telling me is that Stalin befriended all the little guys and then had all the leaders of the old Communist party killed, and then he went and killed all the guys that he'd befriended?" Clint asked, leaning back in his chair with his hands laced over his stomach.

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Phil told him. "It was a power play, and in the end, Stalin was the only man standing."

"That's fucking _brilliant_," Clint told him gleefully. "Like I mean, awful, too, but really. Like…_really_. He could have fucked it up _so much_, with no one to stand behind him but instead he was so in control. It's like the perfect scam!"

"Should I be concerned about your future as a dictator?" Phil asked dryly, and Clint grinned at him. "Nah, too much work. Most days I can barely take care of myself, let alone run an entire country. I probably wouldn't remember to eat most days, if Nat didn't force food on me."

"It sounds like you two really love each other," Phil commented idly, heart sinking when Clint nodded and smiled fondly.

"Yeah, Natasha's the best. I don't even know what my life would be without her." Phil shoved down the feeling of disappointment, cursing himself for even saying anything. Apparently he was a masochist.

"Is she why you decided to go back to school?" Phil asked.

"Not really," Clint shrugged, frowning. "I mean, she kind of suggested it, but she wasn't the reason. You see, right after I got out of the circus, I didn't have anywhere to go and no family to speak of, except for Barney, my brother, but he'd abandoned me a few years before. So I kind of went looking for someone to take care of me, and I got in to this relationship with this guy…" Phil's heart gave a sudden jolt, like it was coming back to life, and he was so distracted by the revelation that Clint dated men that he almost missed what he was saying. "Well, he turned out to be not so nice. He was abusive, but not in the way I was used to. If he'd been hitting me, I wouldn't have hung around, because I've definitely had enough of _that_ in my life. But he was just really mean and controlling, and I didn't really like it, but I figured that's how relationships are supposed to work."

Clint let out a self-deprecating laughing, scrubbing his hands over his face. He looked tired, suddenly, like weary to his bones, and Phil regretted even asking. He certainly hadn't expected to get a story like this, but part of him was touched that Clint trusted him and considered him close enough to even tell him about it at all.

"I was kind of fucked up, but I'd never seen a healthy relationship and I didn't want to be alone, so I just kind of stuck with him. He was always telling me that I was stupid, because I dropped out in the seventh grade, and that I was worthless and would never be good enough for anything except fucking, you know? And I started to believe him. I was working as a cashier at a grocery store when I met Natasha. And she kind of looked right through me, you know? Like, she saw me, behind the wall, because she'd come from a similar sort of place. And we got to talking and became friends and when John found out, and he told me I couldn't see her anymore. And when I told her she told me it was bullshit, and she helped me leave him. And then she built me back up and told me that I had to test for a GED, and if I couldn't get it, she'd let me believe I was stupid. So I took it and it and I did really well. That's when I first started believing that maybe I could be more than I was. I mean, it was still like eight years before I was confident enough to go to college, but I got there eventually. And now I'm almost done."

Phil's heart was hurting by the time Clint finished his story, and he wanted nothing more than to gather him up in his arms and try to protect him from the world. He knew that was irrational. Clint had Natasha for that, obviously.

"It sounds like Natasha really loves you. I'm glad you've found each other," Phil told him, because he wasn't sure what to say. The more Clint told him, the more tragic of a figure he became. It wasn't his place to wish it, but Phil really wanted to be the one Clint went to for encouragement and curled up with at night. His infatuation was getting very out of hand, and even though there were still three and a half weeks until the end of the semester, he dreaded the day that he would have to say goodbye to Clint for good.

"Yeah, she's really good to me," Clint answered with a grin. "But enough about my pathetic life: I still haven't come up with a topic for your final paper, and I have no clue what to do."

Phil was almost grateful for the subject change. He could focus on history and being a teacher. He was very good at that. He surveyed Clint, still stretched out in his chair, before shrugging.

"I can't give you a topic, Clint. It's unfair to the rest of the students."

"Yeah, I know," Clint sighed dramatically. "But you can help, right?"

"Of course I can. Why don't we start with what your favorite part has been? What did you find the most interesting?"

Clint frowned and thought for a few minutes, and Phil waited patiently, watching Clint think while he pretended to study his notes for his next class. He was adorable when he was really thinking, with his eyebrows pushed together and chewing on his lip. God Phil wanted to bite that lip and lick into Clint's mouth.

"Well, I thought Gulag was really interesting," Clint offered, snapping Phil away from his day dreams about the many uses of Clint's mouth.

"Um, yes, the Gulag," Phil answered, clearing his throat and shifting to try and regain control of himself. "So can you come up with an essay question about that?" Clint frowned again, falling back in to thinking-mode, and Phil looked away, determined not to get caught up in his own imagination again. Clint was quiet for almost ten minutes before Phil decided to throw him a bone.

"Well, what else was happening at the same time? In Germany?" he asked.

"The holocaust…" Clint said slowly. "You think I should do a comparison of the two?"

"There has to be a question to answer," Phil reminded him.

"Right," Clint answered, tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair. "So…what if I compared them and asked which one was worse and why?"

Phil smiled at him indulgently. "It sounds to me like you have a topic."

"Awesome," Clint grinned. "Now I guess I just have to write it."

"I guess so," Phil answered. "But at least the paper is all you have to do. No final test."

"Yeah," Clint answered, but he didn't sound so sure.

"You'll do great, Clint," Phil assured him. "You're very smart."

"Yeah, well, thanks," Clint said, blushing adorably. "I uh…I should go. I've got to get to work. Thanks for all the help, Coulson."

"You're welcome," Phil said, and tried not to feel disappointed as he watched Clint leave. He wondered if he had done something to make Clint uncomfortable, or if he was just being paranoid. He was probably being paranoid. Probably.

* * *

Clint accompanied him back to his office after their next class, so Phil figured that he couldn't have been too obvious about his affections, though Clint did seem strangely nervous. Clint closed the door behind him, which wasn't out of the ordinary, but he did grab Phil's arm to prevent him from sitting behind his desk, which was.

"Clint, are you all right?" Phil asked, and Clint swallowed noticeably, his face going a bit pale. "Do you need to sit down; you look like you're going to pass out."

"No," Clint blurted. "I'm okay. I'm. I just. I know you. Right? I mean, I know that you're from Chicago and that you have two sisters and an obsession with Captain America. I know that you were bullied a lot growing up and that you wanted to join the army but you couldn't because you're anemic. I know that you like to spend your Sundays grading papers and watching terrible reality TV. And you know about me. You know about the circus and Natasha and how I got here. You know that I was abused and that it fucked me up and that I have a lot of self-worth issues and that I'll wear almost anything that comes in purple. We've spent every other day together for the past two months and you haven't gotten sick of me and I miss you when you're not around."

"Clint," Phil said, his voice coming out hoarse.

"I think I'm in love with you," Clint said quickly. "I haven't ever been in love before, so I'm not sure. But I think so."

"What about Natasha?" Phil asked, instead of turning Clint down immediately like he should have.

"What about her?" Clint asked. "Nat's like my sister, and she completely encourages this."

"Clint, I…" Again, he was interrupted, but this time by the press of Clint's mouth against his own. Immediately the battle was lost, and he grabbed Clint's arms and held on to him, sending back just as much as Clint was giving. It was just like he'd imagined it would be, hot and wet and so very wonderful. But it wasn't his imagination. He was actually kissing Clint Barton. His student.

He regained control of his brain, pushing Clint away from him and backing up a few steps until he hit the chair in front of his desk. Every cell in his body screamed at him to go make contact again, but he could think clearly now, and he knew how wrong this was.

"I can't do this," he said. "Jesus Christ, Clint, you're my _student_. I can't do this."

"I…I'm sorry," Clint said "That was stupid I don't know why I thought…sorry." And before Phil could say another word, Clint was out the door.

* * *

The next time he saw Clint, it was right before the next class, and he was being handed a pink permission-to-drop slip.

"What is this, Mr. Barton?" he asked.

"It's a drop slip," Clint grunted.

"You need this class to graduate," Phil reminded him, and Clint stared firmly at the floor.

"I'll take something else next semester," Clint shrugged. Phil almost bristled with the way Clint was ready to throw all his hard work away. He knew that things were awkward, and that Clint didn't understand why he was being rejected, but to actually put off graduation for another semester because of it? It was stupid, and Phil knew that Clint was anything but stupid.

"No," he said.

Clint looked up from the floor, his eyebrows rising.

"What?" he asked, disbelieving.

"I said no, Mr. Barton. I won't sign your form and I won't let you drop the course. Take a seat, please, class is about to start."

"You can't do that!" Clint argued, sounding angrier than Phil had ever heard him. Phil ripped the slip in half once, and then again, dropping the pieces in the garbage can next to the podium.

"I just did. You don't have to stay, Mr. Barton, but you will be graded accordingly." Maybe he was an asshole, but he wasn't going to let Clint ruin everything he'd worked for because he was upset. Normally he wouldn't care, but he had always known that Clint was different, hadn't he? They stared each other down for a long moment before Clint huffed and went to take his seat, crossing his arms angrily over his chest.

Phil wished there was something he could do, but he knew there wasn't, not yet, so instead, he just started class. When it was over, Clint was the first person out the door, and Phil tried not to notice how much it hurt.

* * *

Clint passed Phil's class with a solid B, and Phil was very proud of him, but of course, he couldn't tell him that. Clint had taken to sitting in the desk nearest the door, slipping in to class right as it was starting and leaving as soon as Phil dismissed them. Obviously he didn't show up for office hours, and if they ever passed each other on campus he looked straight ahead and pretended like he didn't even see Phil. It was painful, and Phil understood that Clint was feeling rejected and hurt and angry, so he tried not to be too annoyed at him.

He had volunteered to help with commencement months ago, wanting an excuse to watch Clint graduate, and now he was committed to it, and it was just awkward. Still, he clapped just a bit harder when Clint's name was called than he did for anyone else, and he watched longingly as a red haired woman pulled him in to an almost aggressive hug after the proceedings. It was hot and he was depressed and tired, and seeing Clint happy was wonderful but also painful. He thought he might call Maria and Jasper to get a drink or seven, never mind that it was barely past two o' clock in the afternoon. He figured he deserved a little break from his brain for a while.

He went back to his office so that he could put away the cap and gown he'd worn to his grad school commencement and had been required to wear to this one. He felt old and tired, and he cursed himself for letting his feelings get the better of him, for not explaining things to Clint better, for so many things that it was far too late to fix, and then he reached for the phone so he could call Maria.

The door to his office pushed open and the red haired woman who had been with Clint entered uninvited. She looked small and harmless, but something about her gave off the vibe that she was not to be taken lightly. Phil could only assume that she was Natasha.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"Yes, you can," she said. "You can go fix my best friend. You broke his heart."

"Natasha, I presume?" he asked, and she nodded, her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"He's been moping around for weeks, and I don't care what you do, you have to fix it. I've spent way too long working on making him happy for you to ruin it."

"I don't want him to be unhappy, either. But there are certain things that I just can't do. He's my student and it's inappropriate."

"He's not anymore," she answered defiantly. "And he's stupidly in love with you."

"I know that feeling," Phil admitted. "But he tried to make a move too early and I messed things up. He doesn't want to see me now, I can assure you."

"Yes he does," she insisted. "Go talk to him, he's waiting for me by the front doors."

Phil wanted to tell this woman he'd never met to mind her own damn business, but the part of him that was desperate to see Clint grin at him again folded like wet paper. She was Clint's best friend, the one he trusted with everything, and if she thought that Clint wanted to see him, she must have been right.

"Okay," he said. "Thank you for giving me this opportunity."

"Fix him," she responded. "Or I will make you regret it."

He didn't acknowledge her threat, just hurried out the door. Clint was sitting on top of the stairs' hand railing, and a mix of emotions flashed over his face when he saw Phil. Phil almost kept walking, like they'd just passed each other coincidentally, but in the end he couldn't make himself walk away from Clint.

"I'm sorry," he said, and Clint stared at him silently. "I'm sorry that I didn't explain why I couldn't kiss you that day, and I'm sorry that you were so hurt by it. I'm sorry that I haven't tried to talk to you about it since, and that I let you run away from me. I wanted you from the moment I saw you, and then the more I knew you the more I loved you, and I was trying so hard not to pressure you in to anything or be unprofessional, especially when I thought you were in love with Natasha. I panicked and I fucked everything up, but god I'm so in love with you I can't think straight, and being away from you and knowing you've been angry with me all this time has been killing me." Clint's face still hadn't changed expression, and Phil felt any remains of hope he had die in his chest, but he had to keep going because he couldn't stop now.

"I know that you're not interested in me anymore, and I know that this is too little too late, but I think I'm in love with you, and if I could have I would have asked you out months ago. So I'm sorry I ruined it, but I hope you can forgive me for hurting you. I never wanted to and…"

"Phil," Clint said, and it was the first time Clint had ever said his first name and it sounded wonderful. "Just shut up." And Clint leaned forward and kissed Phil on the mouth and it was hard and biting and a little bit angry, but it was so perfect and Phil couldn't help but wrap his arms around Clint's shoulders and cling for dear life. Clint pulled away with a small smile, his hands clutching firmly to Phil's sides.

"So do you want to go on a date with me?" he asked, and Phil could only answer that question with more kisses. He didn't know how long they clung to each other, only that it was long enough for Natasha to show up and start making fun of Clint, who grinned wider than Phil had ever seen and took it with the happiness of a man who had everything he'd ever wanted.

"Aren't you going to apologize for forcing me to stay in your class?" Clint asked, raising his eyebrows in question, and Phil shook his head.

"No, I'm not sorry. Trying to drop that class was foolish, and I won't stand by it."

"You're a jerk. But I'm pretty sure I love you."

"I love you , too," Phil answered, and they kissed again, and it was perfect.

"All right, all right, enough of that. Come on, celebratory dinner," Natasha said actually pushing between them to break them apart. "And keep your hands to yourself I don't need to see you drooling all over each other all day."

"Yes ma'am," Clint said, snapping off a salute, but as they began to follow Natasha back towards her car, he laced his fingers through Phil's and smiled, and Phil couldn't help but grin at the thought that, when it came to Clint, he'd never have to keep his hands to himself again.


End file.
